A Heart Noir
by CSouth
Summary: A roman noir interpretation of the Twilight universe. Edward Cullen is a hardboiled detective with a tortured soul. When darkness threatens to consume his city, can he find the strength to overcome it? AU ExB - Rated M for violence, language, etc.
1. Chapter 1

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**As always, no copyright infringement is intended by the use of the names in this story.**

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Chapter 1**

The sun never really rises on Olympic City. When the smog is spread so thick across the sky that you never even see the difference, there's no use for words like day and night, light and dark; there's only dark, and darker.

It makes me wonder how anyone in this god awful city knows when, or how to sleep. I've been listlessly staring up at the water stain on the ceiling of my bedroom for hours, not awake, but not asleep either. Like the city around me, I'm trapped in perpetual twilight.

It's the same every so-called morning; the alarm clock blares at me until the angry hammering of my neighbour's fist against the drywall coerces me into motion. I make my way into the tiny washroom of my downtown apartment, and examine the sallow face in the mirror.

There was a time when I would have considered myself handsome; copper brown hair, decent bone structure, a full set of my own teeth. After nearly two years of sleepless nights and sunless days, the bruise-black rings under my eyes and pallid complexion have given me the guise of a walking corpse.

After an ice cold shower and once-over with the electric razor, I wander back into the bedroom to get dressed for another inauspicious day on the job. I put on the usual: a dark grey flannel suit, pinstripe shirt, and black tie. The police I.D. on my dresser says my name is Edward Cullen; that's Detective 1st Grade Edward Cullen to the degenerates of Olympic City.

I've been wearing this badge for almost ten years now, and every day I put it on, it seems to get a little bit heavier. I was only days out of high school, living in my backwoods hometown of Forks, when I moved to the city to join the force. I was going to 'make a difference' and do some good. Just thinking about the cliché gives me a headache.

Opening the fridge reveals the finest in continental breakfast cuisine; half a jug of sour milk and a carton of two day old Chinese food. I eat a piece of what I hope is sweet and sour pork before throwing both containers in the trash, and heading for the door. Some days, I need a shot of bourbon just to go out and face this rotten city; thankfully, this doesn't seem to be one of them.

As I approach the elevator on the 8th floor of my apartment building, a mess of yellow tape and a hand-written sign inform me that the lift is 'OUT OF ORDER'. I turn and deliberately head towards the stairwell before I have a chance to reconsider that whiskey.

I pause for a moment after stepping out into the cold concrete jungle to pull a stick of nicotine gum from my overcoat pocket. I figure that there are enough lowlifes out there trying to kill me regularly; I don't need to throw cancer in the mix to help them out.

Parked before me is the only thing in my disconsolate existence that I'm proud of: my jet black Charger, complete with OCPD tags and the finest in confiscated anti-tampering technology. I know it's a bunch of macho bullshit to feel like this about a car, but every man needs his vices. This car is my sanctuary against the infectious darkness of Olympic City, my war chariot.

* * *

Some people say that a city is like a living, breathing organism: it grows, it consumes, it adapts. I agree with them so far as they both get sick. Olympic's particular disease has a name; a mouthful of science jargon that I can't pronounce, let alone spell. Like everyone else, I simply call it _hemo_.

Heralded as a revolutionary universal antidote, hemo was supposed be the next leap forward in medical technology, one that would make penicillin look like herbal tea. Broken bones, third degree burns, or a rare degenerative brain disease? Hemo's got you covered. Hell, even aging was no match for the wonder drug.

As it turns out, some things are too damn good to be true; imagine that. I can almost picture the advertisement in my mind: _Side effects may include hopeless addiction, hostile paranoia, and irrevocable insanity_. I'm told that the euphoria is staggering, but most people get more than they bargain for.

Infinitely more addictive than heroin, vastly more potent than cocaine, and undoubtedly more dangerous than meth, hemo has replaced everything as the street drug of choice in Olympic City; they might as well be selling that other shit at convenience stores, and still the junkies wouldn't bother with it. One hit of the good stuff, and you belong to it.

Hemo might have been just another chapter in the war on drugs, if not for the consequences of overindulgence. If you ingest too much of it, or someone sells you a bad dose, it can start to break down your mind, and your body soon after. Before long, you're just the husk of a human being, picking through trash cans and attacking both strangers and loved ones alike, looking for a fix.

We call them _bloodwraiths_. The hemo in their systems won't let them die, but they're not really alive either. Most of the time, it's more humane for us law enforcement types to just put them down, but being the good civil servants that we are, we follow along with the script of our little puppet show. It'd almost be laughable, if it weren't so tragic. Four out of five doctors will tell you: when an infection gets this bad, there's no treating it… You just need to amputate.

As I pull into a parking spot in front of the station, I can't help but hope that I might get to take it easy today. My partner and I just took point on the bust of a major hemo lab on the east side of town, and I wouldn't mind filling out paperwork on it for the next twelve hours.

Making my way across the bullpen, I'm only marginally aware of the din of telephone rings and angry voices on the killing floor; business as usual. I raise my eyes from the ground just in time to react to a football that's spiralling towards me. I tuck it under my left arm, and keep on walking. I know who it belongs to, and I'm headed that way already.

My partner of four years, Emmett Masen, might be the last decent man left in Olympic City. No matter how much shit-shovelling there is to do, he always comes out smelling like a rose, with a wide grin and a wisecrack to make you forget your own funk. He had been a linebacker at Washington State, and looks every bit the part: broad shoulders, square jaw, short curly black hair, and muscled from neck to heel. If you saw him at a bar, you might be inclined to take a swing at the bouncer first.

He's wearing a tan dress shirt and white tie that I recognize as my Christmas presents to him last year. The rich leather firearm holster across his shoulders sits empty; he's using the butt of his gun to crack walnuts on his desk.

"Hey, Ed. You look like crap today," he says to me with a jovial smirk, sweeping the shell fragments into the trash can by the desk. You have to give it to the guy; he really knows how to cut through the bullshit.

"Well, good morning to you too, partner." I reply, tossing the football back into his lap with unnecessary force. I reach up and tousle my messy bronze hair, as I slump down into the hard wooden chair across from Emmett.

No sooner am I seated at my desk, than I hear my name called out from behind me.

"Detectives Cullen and Masen, could I have a word with you?" asks the smooth and articulate female voice over my shoulder.

"L.T. wants us." Emmett informs me, already on his way over to the corner office. I squint my eyes shut and massage the bridge of my nose for a moment before rising out of my chair to follow him.

Lieutenant Esme Crowley, or Old Crow as she's affectionately known around the precinct, is the very reason they invented the term 'a wolf in sheep's clothing'. Short and thick, with a tight bun of greying-blonde hair, she could pass for your mother. Make no mistake; she busts balls like your mother-in-law.

Crossing the threshold into her immaculate office, I can already tell how this conversation is going to go by the severe edge in her eyes. I lower myself into the chair next to Emmett's, and brace myself for a lashing.

"So, gentlemen," she begins, her voice as sweet as honey. It would almost be relaxing, if I didn't know about the swarm of bees that usually follows it.

"Which of you would like to offer suggestions as to what the hell I'm supposed to do with twenty thousand gallons of hemo? Shall I send it down to evidence, so those crooked pieces of shit can funnel it back out on to the street for their own profit? How about we take it down to Quileute Park and set it on fire, hmm? Maybe the noxious fumes will produce a hemo raincloud, so we can all go bat-shit insane."

Ah, the proverbial sting.

I look over at Emmett; he's got his fingers laced behind his head, staring up at the ceiling and rocking quietly on the back legs of his chair. I stick my elbow in his ribs before the lieutenant can find something sharp to throw at him. To this day, Esme holds the department record for the most formal complaints concerning police brutality, a title of which she is very proud.

"Let me make myself clear, you two: I don't give a mouse fart in a hurricane about the product. What I need are the players, the ones pulling the strings."

"We made some arrests, L.T." I contend sourly.

"Let's have a look, shall we? The highest profile grab we made yesterday was…" she scans the contents of a dossier for a moment, "Mike Newton, fantastic. I'll go call a press conference. The public can rest easy knowing that Mikey Newts is no longer prowling the streets."

I tilt my head back and take a long, deep breath; I know she's right, that Newton doesn't mean anything in the big picture, but a pat on the back now and then would be nice.

She seems to detect my frustration.

"Look, you're good cops, I wish I had ten more like you, but let's get something straight: if we're ever going to make a dent in this hemo epidemic, we need big busts with big faces attached to them. We need the _King of Hearts_."

The King of Hearts is the media nickname for the criminal mastermind responsible for most of the hemo trafficking in the city. Most people don't believe he exists, or at least doubt that it's actually one man running the show. I'm not sure what the lieutenant believes, but I suspect she'd be satisfied with a plausible fall-guy to make her look good on the evening news.

"Yeah boss, we're on it." Emmett drawls out in a patronizing tone.

The daggers she's staring now tell us it's time to leave. I lift Emmett up under the armpit, and shuffle him out the door before we catch any more hell.

"Seems to be in a pretty good mood today, maybe I'll go back and ask for some vacation time." muses Emmett, once the door is firmly shut behind us.

"Yeah, she's all sunshine and lollipops, that one." I reply wearily.

"Aw, don't listen to her, partner. As long as we keep pulling cards out of the deck, eventually we'll get the King of Hearts, right?"

The city might not have one, but at least Emmett has a sunny side.

I decide it's too early to head back to my desk, so I wander over to the coffee machine to pour myself a cup. In an attempt to draw this out as long as possible, I start gazing aimlessly around the room. The new kid, Ben Cheney, is herding another crowd of junkies over to booking. He still doesn't quite grasp that we don't have room for them, and that most of them will be back on the streets before quitting time. I'm sure he'll get wise to our revolving door policy soon enough.

I get the impression that most of these addicts are so strung out that they don't even realize where they are, anyway. To them, it's either the same pleasant dream or harrowing nightmare that it would be outside these walls. One pair of eyes, however, are aware and purposeful, with a tiny crease of concentration between them… and they're staring right back at me.

They belong to a woman standing in the herd of junkies, and immediately my police reflexes start going to work, as if the sketch artist is waiting in the other room. Five-five or six; it's hard to tell with the black stilettos she has on. The low-cut dark blue blouse and thigh length khaki skirt she's wearing show off the body of a swimsuit model, and the colours look great against her alabaster skin. Her chestnut hair is loosely pulled into a messy bun, letting a few strands dangle freely next to her full, luscious li-

"Fuck!" I exclaim, as the scalding hot coffee begins to overflow onto my hand, causing me to spill everywhere. By the time I get back from the men's room with an armful of paper towels, the woman is gone, but her stare is still etched into my mind's eye.

One of the more fortunate side effects of hemo abuse is the effect it has on one's eye color; it paints them a startling bright red. It makes for easy police work when you can skip all the sobriety drills and field testing kits by just looking at their faces.

Her shocking scarlet gaze is still piercing me as I sit back down at my desk.

This mystery woman was also a poster-girl for the primary benefit of hemo, the reason it was created in the first place. Taking hemo will smooth out most of your imperfections, and even ward off the effects of aging while it's in your bloodstream.

Replaying the encounter in my head, I conclude that the expression she wore was one of recognition.

It's common practice these days for pimps to get their girls hooked on hemo, to keep them looking like young supermodels by carefully limiting their dosage. It's possible that the mystery woman was one such unfortunate soul, and that she had recognized me from a past roundup.

I can't lie to myself, there's something to be said for the way some of these addicts look, but it's us versus them, and they're on the wrong team. Too bad, though…

* * *

By the end of the day, my brain is thoroughly numbed from all the paper pushing. Be careful what you wish for, I suppose.

As I come through the door of my apartment, I don't even have the energy to shed my clothes and make it to the bed. I get there without passing out, but I don't want to close my eyes. When I sleep, I have dreams. More accurately, I have one dream. If you wanted to be even more accurate than that, you could say that I have one nightmare.

I switch on the TV in an effort to stave off dormancy. The mayor is smiling and waving, surrounded by his impotent yes men, talking about a 'cure' for the hemo epidemic. _Good luck with that, chief,_ I snicker to myself.

I can't fight it off any longer. The TV is still filling the room with an electric glow as my body slides sideways onto the pillow, drifting off into a deep slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**It's been awhile since I've worked on this story, but I feel compelled to continue. Please review and recommend if you enjoy the story, and leave feedback if not. Thanks!**

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Chapter 2**

"Hey Alice, I'm back." I call out through the apartment, closing the front door behind me.

It's been a long day, and I could use a hot meal; my empty stomach growls in agreement. I shrug off my weather-beaten trench coat and hang it up on the hook by the door, before flitting through the pile of envelopes that I'd pulled from the mailbox.

It all looks like junk mail, half of it for me, the rest of it addressed to a 'Mrs. Alice Cullen'. At face value, one might be inclined to think that Edward and Alice Cullen are a pair of happily married urbanites. In fact, Alice is my kid sister, and some of the only family I have left.

Alice had ― foolishly, I might add ― moved to Olympic City at the too-young age of 16, skipping merrily towards a bright future of happiness and prosperity with her high-school sweetheart, Jasper Whitlock. In fact, she had migrated away from Forks only months before I had. One might say that I made the change for her benefit, and they'd be right.

Being only 19 at the time, I made no claims to be an expert in the perils of city living; my knowledge on the subject had been derived mainly from comic books and crime movies. I knew enough, however, to be apprehensive for my sister's safety. As far as I was concerned, my obligations as the older brother had been clear the day she was born; I might as well have made a written contract out of construction paper, and signed it in crayon.

"You cooking something?" I ask expectantly, strolling casually down the hallway. "Smells like it might be burning, kiddo."

Time had proved me right on the subject of eloping to a major metropolis with your boyfriend, but god damn if they didn't make a good run of it. She spent the first four years exploring every aspect of her inner party girl. Clubs, bars, and a buffet of drugs that would have made Hunter S. Thompson proud. She and Jasper had painted the town whatever colour they fancied, much to the chagrin of my blossoming police sensibilities.

Making my way down the front hall, I'm struck by a sudden unexpected shiver, like someone unseen had slipped their icy fingers down the back of my shirt.

"Alice―?"

Around her 20th birthday, Alice had gotten herself knocked up. It was bound to happen sooner or later, living hard and fast the way she and Jasper did. When she got the news, her priorities made a quick 180; his didn't. With the birth of their beautiful daughter, my niece Rosalie, I petitioned even harder for her to smarten up and get herself out of a bad situation. If she wouldn't make a change for her own sake, then hopefully she would for Rosalie's.

I had never begrudged Jasper before; he seemed to make my sister happy, and that made me happy. But after 3 more years of having to spring him from lockup at 4am, and having to see the blanched look of heartache and worry on my baby sister's face, the message finally got through; she packed her things and split. Jasper had gotten himself into some new drug craze, something called hemo, and it just wasn't safe for Alice and Rosalie anymore.

My cramped two bedroom condo on the upper west side was no palace, even on a cop's lousy salary, but it was safe. I didn't mind the company one bit; seeing my two girls was the brightest part of my otherwise dreary day. They were a constant reminder of why I did what I did, of the kind of people that needed my protection from things that go bump in the night.

"Hey kid, are you―"

As I turn the corner into the living room, I can hear my heart make one last strained thud, before going dead silent. The macabre scene acted out before me makes the blood in my veins go cold, and the icy fingers take a firm grip on my spine.

Sprawled across the carpeted floor, lies the body of a beautiful brunette; her wide eyes are staring up at me with a vacant expression of surprise and panic. The sea of blood that has pooled beneath her gives a shocking contrast to her pale porcelain skin. And lying prostrate at her feet…

"Oh Jesus, oh no, no…"

The young girl rests motionless, her sandy blonde hair matted with crimson red. The entire scene gives the impression of surreal incredulity, like a grotesque wax museum exhibit.

I've seen senseless violence like this before, watched the torment on the faces of the family that the victims had left behind; I might as well have read about it in a book. Crisis Management for Dummies, standard police issue.

Now that the reality of the pain is staring me in the face with lifeless ochre eyes, I feel a sharp stab of regret in my gut for the smile-and-nod mentality I had employed on so many grieving loved ones in the past. How dare I try to dull this kind of pain with mechanical words like 'I'm sorry'. Sorry is for when you bump into someone on the subway, or spill coffee on their jeans. The English language isn't equipped for situations like this, not by a long shot.

After what seems like hours, I find myself still unable to draw a breath. My body is frozen with shock, while my brain is endlessly trying to make sense of the images before me, to no avail. How could I have let this happen? Hasn't my whole reason for living been to keep my girls safe from harm?

My trance of self-loathing is rudely interrupted by the sound of movement and broken dinnerware from the kitchen to my left. My sidearm is drawn reflexively; those responsible for this carnage are still here, and I'm eager to be their judge, jury, and executioner.

Approaching the commotion in the next room, I inhale the smoky scent of burning pot roast; the ill-fated dinner that was never to be. I have to suppress another crippling fit of remorse for the inadequacy of yesterday's pizza as a last meal.

This is just… wrong. What kind of sick bastard kills a woman and child in cold blood in the course of a home invasion? And for what, money? Food? Some kind of random act of sadistic violence, brought on by a bad hemo binge? My breath hitches in my throat at the thought of another possibility, too twisted to allow it to take shape in my mind. There is no justice in a world that allows shit like this to happen to people like my sister.

The only justice left is in the palm of my hand, cold and impartial, trembling in anticipation of the impending verdict.

It takes every remaining shred of my self-control to keep from spitting bullets wildly through the air as I come through the doorway into the dimly lit kitchen, to pause and assess the situation. Tendrils of thick smoke are trickling from the edges of the oven, obscuring the view of the figure now digging through the pantry, like some kind of monstrous raccoon.

Even through the haze, I can make out the tell-tale red flags of extensive hemo abuse: the hunched posture, the corpse-pale skin practically hanging off his bones, the sparse patches of honey brown hair…

_No…_

The recognition hits me like a battering ram. He doesn't respond when I address him, but there's no doubt in my mind of who stands across the room from me, still oblivious to my presence.

"Jasper…" My voice is barely a whisper, not enough to draw his attention. I have to press my free hand to my mouth to suppress the sickening shame washing over me; I can already taste the acrid burn of stomach acid in the back of my throat

_This is my fault_. I let this happen. All those times I fished him out of holding, I made it possible for him to be in Alice's life. I let this infection fester and grow until it got her killed.

My nerves are already as taut as piano wire when the smoke alarm begins wailing. The sudden noise pierces through my senses, offering an instant of sheer clarity. The alarm hasn't escaped his notice either, as he turns to fix his glazed ruby stare on me.

A fleeting image of Alice's warm smile beneath my eyelids is all the motivation I need.

The gunshot rings out like a hot lead thunderbolt; an exclamation point to the fury seething in my veins. _Two, three, four_… I'm on autopilot now, the bullets flying into him in a rain of bloody vengeance. Each step forward is measured, purposeful.

_Eight, nine, ten…_

All I can do for several long minutes is stare down at the bullet ridden carcass at my feet, and wait for the cold fire in my lungs to be extinguished. With the adrenaline rush over, I can feel my legs beginning to turn to Jello. Add to that the crushing mental weight of everything that's just happened and I can't help but let myself collapse into the corner of the room.

_Shit, shit, shit…_ Everything is catching up to me now. Without the fire to keep my body warm, there's nothing left to feel but the cold, hollow guilt. Alice is gone, Rosalie with her, and the piece of filth responsible is a blood smear on my kitchen floor. What's left? If I can't keep my family safe in my own home, what hope do the people of Olympic City have under my inept protection? They're just statistics waiting to happen, one random act away from joining my girls.

My eyes travel slowly to the Glock trapped in my vice grip, still radiating heat from the firestorm that was just unleashed. I pull back the slide to see the glint of a copper jacket shining back at me.

_One round in the chamber…_

* * *

Coughing and sputtering wildly, I'm suddenly sitting bolt upright in my dishevelled bed, faintly illuminated by the glow of the television. Even after two long years, the nightmare never gets any easier; my ongoing penance for failure, every bit as intense as it had been that fated evening.

It takes me several long minutes to get my breathing under control before I can lift myself off the bed and make my way to the dresser, where I automatically reach for the half-empty bottle of bourbon. I knew before I even fell asleep that today was going to be "one of those days"; Today just so happens to be the day that my life was shattered, a fact that I've been acutely aware of for weeks. I pour myself a double before shaking off yesterday's clothes, and head into the washroom for a mercifully cold shower.

After practically sleepwalking through my morning routine, I absent-mindedly check the fridge. _Damn_, still nothing to eat. I'll look again in a few minutes to make sure.

I check my watch; it's not even 6am, but I head for the door anyway, after another mouthful of liquid courage. I'm determined to be even more zombie-like than usual today; Emmett knows the significance of today's date as well as I do, and I don't need any kind of 'brotherly love' to cope with it.

It's pissing rain as I step out into the city to face the long day ahead of me. I light up a cigarette while I loiter under the awning of my run-down apartment complex; my willpower is already stretched as thin as I can manage without having to battle the craving for a smoke. I take my time with it, staring blankly out through the curtain of water at the early morning stirrings of the city. A man with a shabby umbrella is making his way up the steps of an apartment building a few doors down, maybe coming off a graveyard shift of some menial job. I can make out the figure of a wraith in an alley across the street, his head and arms buried in a dumpster. _Pathetic_. I flick the cigarette butt into the street, turn up the collar of my trench coat, and climb into my Charger.

It's only just 6am now, so I decide to get some breakfast before heading to the station. It seems only fitting that I eat at Sue's, a twenty four hour diner on the corner of 26th and Push. It's where I would always take Alice and Rose for an early breakfast after delivering the scumbag.

I park, and hurry inside the warm restaurant. I find myself unsurprised that everything looks exactly the same as it had the last time I was here, more than two years ago. The same retro booth-style seating, upholstered in the same faded red leather. The same blanket of coffee aroma filling my nostrils, and I'm fairly sure it's the same waitress too. The only other patron is a stout man with dark skin, quietly reading a newspaper in the far corner. I take a seat at the counter.

"What'll it be, hon?" asks the vaguely familiar waitress from behind the counter, coffee pot in hand.

"Uh, coffee and…" I take a moment to survey the offerings; every manner of eggs, bacon, sausages and pancakes I could ever want. Despite living primarily on stale doughnuts at the station, I can't seem to build any sort of appetite. "A bagel, thanks." Close enough to a doughnut, I suppose.

"Sure thing, sweetie. Not in an eating mood, huh? " She flashes a maternal smile and turns to prepare my breakfast.

My thoughts turn towards how I plan on avoiding Emmett today. I have no doubt he'll have something kind-hearted planned for me, but he doesn't seem to understand that my coping strategy involves sulking and drinking more than it does socializing. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind, than my cell phone began to ring. I knew instinctively who it was; speak of the devil, and he shall call your cell.

"Hey, Emmett." I mutter into the phone, without checking the caller I.D.

"What's going on, Ed? I didn't wake you up, I hope?" he replies. He knows I'm never in too deep a sleep, but he's too polite to skip the formalities.

"Nah, just about to eat. What's up?"

"Nothing, nothing, just wanted to get a hold of you early in case you decided to play hooky today." God damnit, why does he have to know me this well? "You're coming over for dinner tonight. Angie's making steaks, with those good spices from our trip to Montréal, and you're gonna eat one, maybe two since you're so damn skinny these days."

I like Emmett's wife, Angela. She has a heart as good as his, but is a lot quieter, which provides a nice balance when I visit them.

"Yeah, maybe." I reply noncommittally.

"No, not maybe," he growls back. "Dinner, tonight. See you at 7."

"Right." I mutter again, as I slip the phone into my coat pocket and turn my attention to the bagel and coffee that had been placed on the counter some time during my phone conversation.

I spend the better part of fifteen minutes sipping the coffee, and picking apart the bagel with my long, thin fingers, like a kid with a plate of broccoli.

Through the constant pitter-patter of raindrops against the windowed storefront, the sound of shattered glass catches my attention. I swivel around on my stool to search for the source of the disturbance.

Across the street, I can make out the shapes of two figures, maybe teenagers, running playfully in the rain. Behind them are the fractured remnants of a store display, with the mannequins scattered and fallen inside. I continue to observe the vandals as they throw another object through another window, and take off, laughing in another fit of childish satisfaction.

I toy with the idea of chasing them down, but only for a moment, before returning to my bagel's deconstruction. Too early, too wet, and wouldn't change much anyway.

Another cup of coffee later and I'm ready to leave. The waitress eyes my pile of bagel parts disapprovingly.

"Didn't like it? I wasn't sure if you were a butter or cream cheese kind of fella…" she inquires solemnly.

"No, it was fine, I just… Sorry."

I leave a $10 bill on the counter to reassure her, and step back out into the city. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, which is something to be thankful for. I pause in front of the diner to light another cigarette when another loud noise draws my attention. Not glass shattering, like before, but equally loud and violent. I stroll to the mouth of a nearby alley to investigate.

In the dim glow of the street lamp, I can see three people gathered in the alley; two women and a man. The man has one of the women pressed against the brick wall, gripping her by the shoulder and snarling something to her that I can't quite make out. The other woman is standing a few feet away, arms crossed and staring fixedly at the ground, evidently trying her best to ignore the altercation.

The aggressive stance of the man is enough to prompt me forward. After only a few hesitant steps, I watch in disgust as he raises his free hand and slaps the woman across the face with a loud _crack_. My pace quickens automatically, and as I draw near, I catch the end of the vile man's lecture.

"..another week without a fix, maybe you'll learn some respect, bitch." He spits at the woman, who is now slumped against the side of the alley, trembling and whimpering quietly.

In one fluid motion, I grab a handful of the man's hair and force his face into the brickwork. He howls in pain as I draw his head back, and propel it once more into the wall for good measure. I spin him around to face me, and I stare furiously into his wide, dark eyes, which are staring back with a mixture of shock and panic. A typical bully, cowardly and weak.

"Listen closely, you piece of shit, because this will be the only time I'll warn you." I whisper menacingly to the man, my face only inches from his. "If I ever find you again, I don't give a fuck if you're delivering meals to the elderly, or working at a soup kitchen, I will kill you. I'll put your worthless head under the heel of my boot and fucking squash you like the cockroach you are. Do we understand each other?"

The man's nose is streaming blood over his tightly pursed lips. He gives a few rapid nods to signal that he gets what I'm saying.

I toss him by his collar towards the entrance of the alley, and watch as he scrambles to put as much distance between himself and me, and if he's smart, the rest of Olympic City.

I turn back to the two women, who are still maintaining their positions; the first girl, a redhead, sitting with her arms around her knees, still sobbing quietly and seemingly oblivious to the change in atmosphere. The other, a tall blonde, is eyeing me with speculative red eyes. This confirms what I had suspected as I came down the alley; working girls, and their attacker is, or was, their boss.

The blonde is looking me up and down, trying to decide what to make of me, I suppose; whether I'm just a Good Samaritan, or if I acted with expectations of a… reward. She takes a careful step towards me.

I draw my hand across the hem of my coat and pull it back, revealing the shining copper badge on my belt. The revelation causes the girl to take three quick steps backward. I let out a long sigh, and turn to leave. Edward Cullen, the cop, is meant to see people like them with contempt, but Edward Cullen, the person, can only muster a hollow sense of pity.

It's quite possible that I haven't really been a cop for two years now, to the day. I just needed some structure, a routine to follow, or else I might not have done anything at all after what happened. I've been going through the motions, maybe even doing some good in the city, but it's not for justice's sake. It's just what Alice would have wanted me to do, to keep going, or at least try to.

The rain begins to pick up again as I slide into the driver's seat of my car, still lost in my soul searching. I'm so oblivious to the world around me that I barely feel the needle slide into my neck from some unseen assailant in the back seat.

_It hardly ever rains in Olympic City, but it's always fucking pouring_, I think to myself as my vision begins to blur, and go dark.

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**Please remember to add a review if you've enjoyed the story thus far. It makes it so much easier to continue writing when you know that there are people eager to know what happens next. Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm going to try my best to keep a chapter/week pace for this story. This chapter is more violent than the previous two. As always, feedback and suggestions are greatly appreciated, so please review! I hope you enjoy this next stage of Edward's journey.**

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Chapter 3**

My first dreamless sleep in ages is ended with a face full of stinging cold water.

"Rise and shine, pig." An unfamiliar jeering voice cuts through my still groggy senses.

It takes a few moments for my vision to come into focus after shaking the icy water out of my eyes. My police training is so engrained into my reflexes that I begin to survey my new surroundings before I'm even able to see them.

My first breath is filled with the scents of dust and old brickwork; not uncommon in the dingy slums of Olympic City, and therefore not immediately useful. The room I find myself in is dimly lit, unfurnished apart from the hard metal chair I'm seated in, and windowless. A basement, maybe?

I lean forward to rise out of my seat, only to find myself bound by leather straps across each wrist to the arms of the chair. Attempting to kick my feet forward reveals a similar predicament with my ankles. I try to rock back and forth, but the chair seems to be bolted to the bare concrete floor.

A soft snicker reminds me that I'm not alone.

The single bare light bulb dangling over my head isn't much assistance, but it's enough to make out 3 figures in the gloom. Two of them, one tall and wiry, the other stocky and thick, are standing side by side near the base of a staircase on the far side of the room; another quick survey of the room tells me that this is my only exit. Though they're mostly cloaked in shade, I can see the unfriendly smiles directed at me by the whites of their teeth.

The third man is standing off to the right, leaning lazily against the wall with his arms crossed. It might be the poor lighting, or the after effects of whatever these assholes stuck in my neck, but this guy could easily be 7 feet tall, and thick as a tree trunk. The giant is the first to break the silence.

"Hey, Cullen, long time no see. You never write anymore." The voice is deep and gruff, and brimming with malicious sarcasm. It's a voice I know well, and pieces of the puzzle start falling rapidly into place.

"I didn't know you could read, Jacob." I reply scathingly.

Jacob Black, muscle-for-hire, had been the yin to my yang for nearly my entire career in law enforcement. He's roughly my age, and had begun work on his rap sheet around the same time as I started walking the beat. One could almost say that we grew up together, the way rivals often do. It occurs to me that I haven't thought about, or cuffed him in quite a while; I guess he doesn't get under my skin as much as he would like to think.

"Tsk, now is that any way to greet an old friend?" replies Jacob, as he strolls out from his dark corner and into the dim ring of light on the floor around me. If it's possible, he looks even bigger up close. He had always been tall, but now his black t-shirt is stretched across him like plastic wrap. He stops in front of me, and crouches down to his heels, bringing him to eye level.

"You know, anabolic steroids are really bad for you." I offer matter-of-factly. He responds with a wide smile, creating a sharp contrast of white teeth against russet skin.

"You hear that, Quil? You'd better lay off the juice." He calls over his shoulder to the two men still in the shadows. The tall one tries, unsuccessfully, to muffle his laughter. The short one seems less amused.

"I've gotta say, Cullen, I'm impressed. You must be trying extra hard to be a pain in the ass these days for the boss to set his sights on you like this." Jacob continues, turning to once again fix his dark eyes on me.

_Boss… right._ I scoff at the thought. Jacob Black pretends to be as loyal as a dog as long as the pay checks keep flowing; as soon as they dry up, or bigger ones start showing up elsewhere, he's just another hungry wolf.

"Which of your many 'bosses' did I piss off this time? Still running protection detail for old Sam Uley?"

"Oh, you haven't heard?" He flashes another wide grin. "Some detective you are. I take my orders from the King these days, and boy, does he have it in for you something fierce."

A small surge of electricity runs down my spine. I wasn't expecting that; this could be worse than I had anticipated. If the King of Hearts is kidnapping cops now, he's taken things to the next level; it means open war in Olympic City. We pushed him by clamping down on his production in the city, and this is him pushing back.

Even though this new piece of the puzzle is triggering my instinct for self-preservation, I work hard to keep any sign of distress from tainting my carefully composed façade.

"Alright then, let's cut to the chase. You didn't bring me here for my sparkling conversation. What do you want, Jacob?" I inquire coolly. I'm anxious to know the answer; for better or for worse, I want to get this over with.

Jacob only continues to beam his shit-eating grin at me, seemingly detecting my impatience.

"You know what? I've got something for you to tell the King." I fire at Jacob and his juvenile smirk, making no secret of my irritation now. I cast a theatrical and deliberate glance at his two lackeys before flicking my head back, in a gesture to beckon him closer. He raises an eyebrow in feigned interest, but leans forward to receive my message all the same.

The moment his face is close enough, I send my forehead hurtling down into the bridge of his nose, producing an audible and unmistakable c_runch_. The startling force of the impact forces him backwards over his heels, and onto the cold concrete. I'd say he got the message.

I can't help but grin and laugh mirthlessly as Jacob scrambles to right himself and stem the steady flow of blood trickling from his undoubtedly broken nose. It's been so long since I've crossed paths with Jacob Black that I forgot how much pleasure I get from shutting his smug mouth.

After regaining his balance, Jacob locks eyes with me for only a moment to convey his raw hatred before swinging his brick-sized fist across my face in a vicious right hook. It connects flush with my cheekbone, forcing my head sideways in a blast of concussive force. I don't even have time to assess the damage before another wrecking ball strikes me across my right eye, causing a flash of white in my vision. I have just enough time to regain my senses to watch Jacob plant his feet and torque his hips in preparation for another violent blow. This one catches me in the base of the jaw, and the impact sends shockwaves of pain rippling through my skull. I press my lips together, _hard_, to stifle a moan; I won't give this asshole the satisfaction.

It takes me awhile to pull my senses together after the onslaught. My vision is still blurry from my right eye; my orbital bone might be broken. I can taste the warm blood pooling in my mouth, the unpleasant flavours of rust and salt that beg to be expelled. I lean forward to spit on Jacob's shoes, but a sharp pain in my jaw stifles the attempt, allowing the crimson saliva to dribble out onto my shirt. My jaw must be broken too, or at least dislocated. I hate how I must look right now; only three punches and I'm battered and helpless, leaking blood and spit on myself, unable to do anything about it.

"You always have to do things the hard way, don't you, Cullen?" Jacob growls, halfway between anger and amusement, the sound distorted by his nasal injury. "We were only ordered to carry out one little task, and then cut you loose, but then you had to go and do something like that."

Task? What task? And how can they possibly think they could cut me loose after this; we both know damn well that Emmett and I would be kicking down his door tomorrow, along with an army of cops and their itchy trigger fingers. I try to ask, but the pain in my jaw stops me short and brings on another wave of dizziness.

"Quil, Embry, go to work on this piece of shit. I've got somewhere to be. Call me when it's done."

"We can go all out, Jake? Seriously?" asks the tall one, Embry I suppose.

"Sure, sure. Make him beg for a bullet before you do it. I'll see you boys later."

Jacob turns back one last time to meet my eyes. I'm expecting one last taunt, but he only stares at me with a narrow glare for one long moment with a tiny frown on his lips. Finally, he raises a hand up and points his index and middle finger at me, miming a pistol. He mouths the sound of the imaginary gunshot, before turning and heading up the stairs, leaving me alone with the two goons.

The only things cutting through the utter silence now are the steady rhythmic _drip, drip_ of a leaky pipe somewhere behind me, and my own laboured, uneven breathing. The thugs are looming over me hungrily, looking me over, trying to decide where to begin. The baton in Quil's hand gives me a pretty clear idea of what to expect from the next several minutes.

I close my eyes and steel myself for the pain. No matter what happens, I'm not going to scream. I've taken more than my share of beatings from being a cop in Olympic City; trespassing in the grimy slums where the law is an unwelcome guest. This could even be the last one I ever endure, depending on what the King has in store for me. I run through some possibilities in my head; hanging my battered corpse from the flag pole in front of the station, dragging me through the streets behind my own car… none of them are terribly appealing ways to die.

The first blow comes sharp and crisp against my left hand with a _crack_, sending lightning up my arm. I clench my teeth reflexively, only to loosen them in response to the searing pain in my jaw. The only noise I surrender is a muffled grunt; so far, so good.

I've found in the past that keeping my eyes closed is an effective way to deal with the mental aspect of physical pain, like setting a dislocated finger on 3, and doing it on 1. It lets me focus on something besides the baton now being swung into my kneecaps. I think about dinner at Emmett's; earlier today, I was dreading a night of pleasant socializing in order to ward off dark thoughts, but now I'd definitely prefer a nice steak to this beating.

Ribs, forearms, collarbone, shins… The repeated strikes are blending together into one blanket of pain covering my entire body. I feel like a teddy bear with half his stuffing missing, shapeless and headed for the trash can.

I open my eyes when I realize that the blitz has stopped. My vision is still blurry and unfocused; probably a good thing, since I don't think I can bear to see how pathetic I look after that thrashing.

I can see the two mugs still standing nearby, and hear them speak. It sounds distant, like they're at the other end of a long hallway.

"Phew, that really takes it out of you." Says one.

"Still, glad to be on this side of the stick." Replies the other.

"Anyway, you ready to do this?"

"Yeah, let's get it over with, I'm getting hungry."

"You're always hungry."

One of them grabs a fistful of my hair and wrenches my head backwards. His other hand grips my jaw roughly, which sends another shock of pain through my system and causes my vision to reel once more.

I can feel something cold and thin across my lips… a cup? They're pouring whatever's inside into my mouth. It's warm, like hour old coffee, but as viscous as cough syrup. It tastes terrible, somewhere between sour milk and stomach acid. What the hell are… they…

_Oh FUCK_!

Only now do I start to squirm in my chair, but it's not much use when your bones are made of jelly and dust; it only amplifies the pain and the panic. I start to cough and sputter to expel the poisonous liquid, but they simply pinch my nostrils and clamp my mouth shut with their grubby paws.

I hold on as long as I can, but it's only a matter of time before the hemo slips down my throat, coating it with the venomous drug. Of all the possible ways to die I had considered, this is the most humiliating, vulgar, degrading…

I've just been giving a death sentence.

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I love to end a chapter with a cliffhanger. Please review!**


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